other heavenly bodies
by bloodbuzz
Summary: He sees the way her eyes aren't as bright as her smile indicates they should be and the way her hands shake as she holds the flute in a death grip. Some of the manifestations of a victor disappear over time. Others don't, and Finnick wills his own hand to still. AU.


other heavenly bodies

_tonight, you just close your eyes_  
_and i just watch you_  
_slip away_

—"about today" by the national

* * *

"Mr. Odair, we are about to arrive at your destination," the driver reports, keeping both hands steady on the steering wheel, and tapping his right index finger against the it as he leads the car down a linear stretch of road.

"Thank you, Lysander," Finnick replies. The divider between the driving pit and the plush passenger area slowly rises he holds the switch down. "I'll see you at midnight."

Finnick hears the faint, "it's been my pleasure, Mr. Odair." He retrieves his uniform black sunglasses from his breast pocket and slides them on his face.

The car pulls to a stop, engine purring, and Lysander gets out. Seconds later, the door opens, and the blinding lights and deafening noise rush in. Beneath his darkened eyewear, he closes his eyes against it all. When he finally climbs out of the car, his eyes are open and his face is stretched into an artificial smile.

"Mr. Odair," Lysander greets. Finnick barely picks it up. All around him, cameras are exploding in his face and three different people are asking him the same question.

"Thank you, Lysander," he repeats. As soon as he steps away from the relative safety of his dark passenger cavity, microphones are being shoved in his face.

"Mr. Odair," a persistent reporter, all teal hair and subtle orange skin, sticks out to him. "Where's your date for this evening?"

Finnick thinks of Annie back home, dressed down and playing with her cousins. He doesn't answer, just shoots the reporter his signature smile, and somehow, a blush creeps across her cheeks.

He elbows his way through the throng of reporters, smiling and reflecting questions. The heavy oak doors budge easily beneath his hands and he exits the circus and enters the madhouse.

The ballroom is elegant in a quiet way, adorned with lush purples and deep reds. A waiter with pink skin passes him and Finnick grabs a flute, filled just shy of the brim with a liquid that's bubbly and blue, from his tray. Bows collide with strings and a crescendo of a poisonously saccharine refrain saturates the room.

In the morning, twenty-four tributes will wake up in beds they've never seen before. That afternoon, prefatory training will begin for the 75th Annual Hunger Games.

But, that's tomorrow, not tonight. Finnick drains the blue beverage and it burns his throat all the way down. He relishes in it, in the pain that he feels at the base of his throat.

"Do you remember when the lavish balls were for us?" Finnick doesn't need to turn to know that it's Johanna Mason. He hasn't heard her voice in five months, but he'd recognize it anywhere.

"If I'm honest, Hanna, all I remember is being fourteen and facing death. But, I suppose they have little use for us now, so why celebrate? We're essentially ornamental."

Johanna leans against his side. She's already drinking, too. "Well, they certainly have use for some parts of you, now don't they, Odair?"

Anyone else, and the comment would've hit a nerve. Johanna just smirks and drains her drink, a golden silky substance.

The two weave through the crowd, indulging politicians and schmoozing the most generous sponsors. Occasionally, they depart from the others' company to work the room, but they always end up with the other on their arm.

As the night reaches full swing, whispers start to creep their way across the room, crawling from skin to skin on the force of the air current. "Did you hear?" Johanna asks, grabbing two more unconventionally shaped flutes from an overworked Avox for them. "The newest victor is about to grace us with her presence."

Johanna has a prowess for timing, and Finnick thinks that might be why she's standing beside him. As soon as he finishes his fourth drink of the night, crystal pink and fizzy, the main entrance doors open and Katniss Everdeen glides into the room.

He uses the word "glides" because he's not sure her feet are actually touching the ground.

She's nothing short of stunning. Her gown, a lovely and soft, shimmering gold, ends just below her knees, and the ruffles of lace that fleck it react brilliantly against the fierce gray of her eyes. Finnick catches her eye and he sees murder in them. It's the same feeling he gets in his bones every time he looks into a mirror for too long.

He can hear Johanna say something that's no doubt snarky, but he's replaying the finale of the 74th Annual Hunger Games in his mind. He watched Katniss grow close to Peeta in the cave, watched as his lifeline became tangled with hers. He saw the other side, too: the look of absolute hope on Peeta's face upon hearing the announcement, the tender glances he gave her when she was looking, and the vulnerable, loving ones he gave her when she turned away.

The slow burn of star-crossed lovers falling for each other to the backdrop of savagery and internalized genocide made for quite the epic romance. The Capitolites fell in love with their love.

It was quite the plot twist, then, when upon the retraction of the district partners revision, Katniss killed Peeta.

Except Katniss didn't just kill him, she murdered him. It was all cool and completely calculated. The announcement was made, and by the time Peeta had finished saying, "Maybe we could—" she'd lodged an arrow directly into his heart and he died with betrayal on his lips. The headline the next day had been _Victor Shoots Lover In Heart . . . Literally._

There had been vicious rumors of Katniss having faked the whole affair. They painted her in a cruel, dark light: heartless girl uses love as a weapon. When she chose herself over Peeta, she may have won her life, but she lost her right to live.

It's immediately obvious to Finnick that all the foul whisperers have never met Katniss; or, maybe he's just experienced in finding the flaws in a painted mask. He sees the way her eyes aren't as bright as her smile indicates they should be and the way her hands shake as she holds the flute in a death grip.

Some of the manifestations of a victor disappear over time. Others don't, and Finnick wills his own hand to still.

Katniss looks up from her conversation with Seneca Crane and catches his eye. He lifts his leather-clad foot to step toward her and Claudius Templesmith's wife snakes her arms around his waist.

"I've been looking for you," she whispers in his ear, an obvious attempt at seduction. Finnick refrains from wincing at the hot-wet sensation of her mouth on his ear. "My room is waiting."

He looks up to find Katniss again, but she's gone. He allows himself to be dragged behind the married woman to buy more useless secrets.

* * *

**author's note: **Thanks to Angel (angels entwined) for editing this, but all mistakes are my own. For Wendy, because she wanted onesided!Finnick/Katniss.

Review?


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